by Sax Rohmer
“I said I had been paid for my night’s work, and as the numbers of the notes might be traced, I would hide them upstairs in one of the empty rooms. She didn’t like the idea, but I had my way. I put all the money from the case into a secret drawer in an old bureau, a bureau which I had discovered one day, under the dust sheets, and of which my wife didn’t know the trick. When I had made everything safe, I returned to South Audley Street.
“No need to say what I felt like when I discovered what had happened and found police in the house. What I had thought was a case of assault and robbery had turned out to be a case of murder. I knew, then, that I was in it up to the neck. I knew there were people connected with roulette who could be forced to say that I had been there on that night. This would prove that my wife was not telling the truth — and the crime would be pinned to me.”
Wake leaned forward in his chair, and Chief Inspector Firth would not have been surprised had he slumped to the floor. His features were leaden, his eyes had the watery glare of those of a dead fish. Bluett looked up from his notes.
“Could you give any description of this man, who, you say, ran off as you came up?”
“I never had a glimpse of him,” Wake whispered. “I only heard that cry from Sir Giles, then the thud of his fall.”
“Ye heard no word of the altercation which you state was taking place before that?” Firth interjected.
“No — just words here and there, mostly cursing and growling — a dreadful sort of growling. I have no more to say, sir, no more that I can think of. I know I’m for it. It was robbery. Being used to gambling circles, I may not have as much respect as other people for money of that kind. Ask me anything you like. For God’s sake ask me something which will help me to prove I am innocent of murder ...”
30
Malta Convoy
“This is the most singular case upon which I have been employed,” said Gaston Max; “but yes, the most singular. Twice, I have gathered my evidence: first against Sir Giles Loeder, and some clumsy fool murders him; second, against his associates (I believe, his employers), and this will be completed to-night. I hand my plate of fruit over to Military Intelligence — and become a free man.”
The Assistant Commissioner, standing in his bay window, was counting cars passing along the Embankment: he had estimated that private traffic was roughly five per cent of pre-war normal. Behind him, Gaston Max began to whistle, or hiss through partly closed teeth, “Up in the morning early.”
“But who murdered Loeder? That’s what Firth wants to know.”
“Alas!” Max looked up as the Assistant Commissioner turned and stared across at him, small eyes twinkling keenly. The Frenchman began to twirl his heavy monocle, which was really a lens, about an extended forefinger. “For the poor Inspector my heart bleeds. His case is worse than mine. Indeed, they are inseparable. He has now two candidates for the jury: he has Flight Lieutenant Kershaw, who confesses to the crime; he has also James Wake, the butler, in whose possession was found the stolen money. Eh bien! Two should be sufficient.”
“Not if neither of ’em did it.”
Gaston Max extended talkative hands. “That Kershaw’s story is true in every particular I accept as a fact. I have had some conversation with him, you understand. Very well. He did not break the man’s neck; he did not make that big bruise on Loeder’s forehead which I examined in the mortuary. If Wake is lying about what happened to cause death, he is not lying when he says that Loeder fell outside Lord Marcus’s door. Wake could not have carried a heavy body much further; and we can accept, I think, his statement that he, and no one else, placed Loeder in the lobby. No, no, I believe that Wake’s story is true.”
“Any jury would hang him, all the same. Top marks to Firth for working out that if Wake had the money he wouldn’t hide it at Amberdale’s. Requisitioning trick worked like a miracle. Caught red handed.”
“I salute the Chief Inspector,” said Gaston Max gravely. “He is a clever one, this good Firth. I have never done a better thing myself.”
Colonel O’Halloran cleared his throat. “What happens to-night?”
“To-night, Colonel O’Halloran, my old, it is the grand jamboree. Luck, or that Kismet of the Arabs, put into my hands a key which enabled me to read messages wrapped up in postscripts, and other broadcasts of the late Sir Giles. Eh bien! these people have no suspicion that I have discovered this key, and so they are using it again! This time it is Francis Batt, the popular comedian, who is craftily broadcasting information to Berlin.”
“You have confirmed this, of course?”
“But of course! To-night he will broadcast details concerning the Malta convoy — details which he has learned at the Grand Marnier, at the Green Spider, and from the fools who play roulette.”
The Assistant Commissioner crossed to his desk and began to fill a new briar, stuffing it with that tobacco which he kept loose in his coat pocket, and from time to time shooting side glances at Gaston Max. “Green Spider?”
“But yes; ultra smart, undress, most expensive; popular with the very young and the very old.”
“Shouldn’t expect to find anybody there who counted.”
“A man is only as old as his experience. There are Peter Pans with whiskers. But yes. Those political parties given by the late Sir Giles formerly served the Axis also very well. Contacts were numerous and important.” Max shrugged. “Why, he, an Englishman — although I believe his father was a naturalised subject — should have worked against his country I know not. Perhaps I shall never know. Perhaps I shall.”
“Firth has been checking up on this man Francis, or Batt, or whatever he’s called; also on a bird named Michaelis. Anything new in that quarter?”
“Name of a name! who is this Mr. Michaelis? He is a friend of Madame Destrée, and is almost certainly connected with the roulette racket. He is also a big man of business; much respected in the City, a director of several other companies as well as that controlling the Grand Marnier, and the Green Spider. Alas, it is easy for a clever one, who cares to establish himself for a long time in a country before he commits any subversive act, to lose his real identity. We learned this in France! He is supposed to be a native of Belgrade, or of some place just outside that city. He belongs, then, to a friendly nation. His papers, doubtless, are in perfect order. Such papers can be obtained so easily when the German Foreign Office is behind the candidate. His roots in Yugoslavia, if he ever had any, are torn up, burned in the ashes of Belgrade. It is clever, because it is very simple. And so I ask, also, who is this Mr. Michaelis?”
Colonel O’Halloran experienced some difficulty in getting his pipe going: his lighter lacked petrol. “The man Batt, of course, is booked for a firing party. But who the devil is he?”
Gaston Max produced his cigarette case, selected and lighted a cigarette. “He is a musician, this one, most talented. He calls himself an American. He sends to Berlin information by word of mouth, and also uses their ‘Pythagoric’ code in the form of notes on a piano. He, too, is associated with Madame Destrée. There are others; they are small fry; but above all, there is Destrée. Who, you demand, is Destrée?”
“Got her dossier here.”
“True — I have studied it. In normal times I could perhaps have filled in the missing parts. To-day—” he made a clicking sound with his tongue— “impossible. Information regarding our raid on the French coast was broadcast to Berlin by the late Sir Giles Loeder, and now this man Francis is up to the same game.”
“Why hasn’t he been arrested before?”
Gaston Max smiled; his teeth flashed brilliantly. Then he laughed: “Ha! ha, ha, ha! Listen, Colonel O’Halloran, my old. I, too, am cunning like the good Firth, and when I have found from whom they are obtaining this information, I act. Now, the Malta convoy concerns the Food Ministry. Yes? For we must be rationed here, in order that those poor Maltese are fed. Very good. I suspect Lady Huskin.”
Colonel O’Halloran, who had sat down, jumped up again. “
Draw the line, Max! Silly woman, I grant — but no spy, I’ll swear.”
“So, too, will I. But how dangerous can a silly woman be! In the past she has spilled vital information. I made some tests, no matter what, and I became sure of this. I called upon Lord Huskin—”
“In what capacity, might I ask?”
“Oh, just as myself.”
“Novel behavior.”
“He is a clever man, this one, as you know; a small lump of Yorkshire, four square like a gin bottle, with clear gray eyes which tell nothing but the truth. It was by telling the truth that he became Baron Huskin, although he began as a grocer. Very well; a clever man. His wife is his only indiscretion. With such a man I know how to speak, for such a man has no illusions. I told him that Lady Huskin was indiscreet, that she failed to understand the importance of matters which came to her knowledge. He did not throw me out. He did not even frown. He smiled; it was acceptable: he knew. And so we made a plot. I said to him: ‘Become so worried over the matter of this great convoy, that you are constantly speaking of it in the hearing of madame. Let it get on your nerves, my faith; talk about it in your sleep. Speak of the tonnage of the ships, of the strength of the escort, of the date of sailing from Birkenhead, the date of arrival at Gibraltar. Speak, my Lord Huskin — and let every word be a lie.’”
The Colonel chuckled horsily. “Did that make old Huskin laugh?”
“Certainly. I said to him: ‘As a reward, presently, very soon, I, Baron Bernstein of the black market, will hand over to your Ministry information about this traffic which you will find of superlative interest.’ This was agreed, then. But as I could not know what nonsense Lord Huskin might impart to his wife, in a seemingly accidental manner, I prepared some items — marked coins, you understand — and imparted these myself.”
“And the balloon goes up to-night?”
“To-night, Francis Batt is to appear in a star program for Canadian troops, at a camp not many miles from the South coast. The Army entertainment authorities always provide him with a car for such occasions, and a special pass. This performance will be broadcast. The case will then be out of my hands, and in the hands of Military Intelligence.”
“This side of case no concern of my department; but I’ll listen in,” said the colonel, little eyes twinkling and lean, square jaw set very grimly. “Cancel everything else. Is he going to be arrested in camp?”
“No, no — on his way back through Farnborough ...”
Some ten minutes later, Sergeant Bluett rapped on the door, came in and looked around the Assistant Commissioner’s office as if in search of somebody. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought Mr. Max was here.”
“Just gone. What is it, Sergeant?”
“It’s a cabled report from New York, sir, which the Chief Inspector promised to show him.”
“Let me see it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brandt, Johann Fritz,” O’Halloran read aloud: “Born Cologne, August 27th, 1897. Adopted U.S. citizenship, March 23rd, 1930 (New York City). Visited Germany, 1931-32, and again in 1936-37. During these periods received training at Nazi Gestapo headquarters and became a group Leader in N.Y. Speaks fluent English. Arrested at Buffalo, January 11th, 1939, on information laid by the convicted German spy, Adolf Wesser. Later escaped from custody, killing two police officers, one by strangulation, and is believed to have crossed into Canada where tracks were lost.
“Brandt is a powerful man and a trained killer; height 5 ft. 10 inches; weight 176 pounds; hair, dark brown, eyes, light blue. At time of arrest had a short moustache, and habitually used spectacles. Peculiarities: — a dimple on his chin; left leg 3/8ths of an inch shorter than right. (Wears a special shoe).
“He is an accomplished musician. For three years toured with Kit Harkaway’s Band as arranger, pianist, and comedy vocalist. Probably using forged passport. A dangerous Nazi agent.”
31
In Berkeley Square
As their taxi pulled out from the darkness of Victoria Station to an even greater darkness beyond, Dick Kershaw nervously sought, found and grasped Fay’s fingers. She twined them in his, uttering a contented sigh; for it seemed to her at this moment that a hideous black barrier had been raised and that beyond the gloom of wartime London a white sunny road stretched on into infinity.
Neither spoke for a long time. Perhaps each wondered (as many had wondered) what extra sense came to life in London taxi drivers with the institution of black-out; marvelled at the ease with which these experts found their way through streets possessing no visible characteristics to distinguish one from another. More probably, they were thinking of the man whose death had raised the barrier, that gate of folly, of lies.
“I sometimes feel as if I had lived right through one life,” said Dick Kershaw, “died, and gone straight on into the beginning of another. The first life ended at the very moment I walked out to ‘Treasure Island’ and saw you standing on the bridge. I didn’t believe then, that the second life could ever begin ... I wonder what made me so blind to plain facts, so blind that I wouldn’t even admit to myself that I had made a frightful mistake.”
“You weren’t really sure of her?”
“Never. It was a kind of misplaced sympathy, at first, and after that just self-love. She was all alone, and had to fend for herself, or so she made out. Of course, she attracted me at the beginning, and, as I can see now, made all the running. I knew her refined ways were a pose, but I didn’t blame her. There is nothing against a girl trying to climb to a better position than she was born in. But I was practically sure she hadn’t told me the truth on many occasions; and I was beginning to realise that if I didn’t trust her, there must be a mistake somewhere. Because two people can’t roll on together like that. Then, all the rumors. In fact one of our fellows gave me a pretty direct tip, so that I was half prepared for what I found out. At the time, it was a nasty jar, all the same: but as I see now, it was nothing but self-pity. It’s hard for a man to face the fact that he has been run for a sucker.”
“You don’t know what I suffered, Dick,” said Fay, “when you told us the story ...”
Dick Kershaw released her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. His voice was very tender. “Fay, darling, I have hurt you so much that I think only an angel could ever forgive me.”
She did not answer, but very contentedly rested her head on his shoulder.
“The way I was received by Colonel O’Halloran,” Dick went on, “his assurance that whatever I might say to the contrary, I had not killed Sir Giles Loeder, simply stupefied me. Certainly, I didn’t cause the bruise on his head which you described, and even you didn’t know that his neck was broken, did you? He must have revived as I ran off, and, poor devil, been set upon a second time by the man I heard coming up.”
“Wake,” murmured Fay.
“Yes! think of it being your cousin’s butler! And think that we are on our way to the house now, the house where his body was found.”
“Wake denies murdering him,” said Fay. “But he can’t deny having the money, because it was actually in his possession.”
“It seems a perfectly clear case to me.”
There was another silence, which was broken by Fay.
“Have you ... written to ... the girl, Dick?”
“Rita Martin? Yes. I didn’t reproach her or anything like that. I have no one to reproach but myself. In fact, I told her I was sorry she had lost her friend and took it for granted she would understand that everything was off between us. Fay?”
“Yes, Dick.”
“Have you any idea what this invitation to your cousin’s house means? I am naturally glad to have an opportunity of meeting him, but at the same time I am terribly nervous.”
Dick Kershaw fingered an invitation card which he had in his pocket. It bore the word “informal” and gave the purpose of the occasion as “Supper, and a psychical experiment.”
“You’ll love him, Dick. He is simply charming. Yes, I know why we are goi
ng, but I don’t know who else is to be there. In fact, he had to get my consent.”
“Your consent to what?”
“To the séance he is going to hold. You see, he had promised me to give it up, after the night that the body was found in his lobby.”
“And after the séance?”
“You can count upon a really good supper, Dick,” said Fay dreamily, “although I don’t know what arrangements Marcus has made since the arrest of Wake. Have you any idea where we are?”
Dick, without moving his arm, bent to peer out of a window. “We seem to be crossing a square. Would it be Berkeley Square?”
“If it is,” said Fay, “we are nearly there.” He had drawn very close to her in looking out of the window. “Dick.”
“Yes, Fay?”
“Did you ever hear the song ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square?...’”
32
The Man and the Mummy
“It may be somewhat difficult,” said Lord Marcus, “to make clear to those of you who have neither sympathy with, nor knowledge of, a subject to which I have devoted much study, the purpose which inspires me to-night.”
He stood before the open hearth of that room which also housed an Egyptian mummy. His guests were seated, some on chairs, others on a deep settee, facing him. A standard lamp, in addition to that on the desk, was alight, so that this study, reliquary of queer treasures from an earlier civilisation, presented a somewhat less sombre appearance than usual. Lord Marcus wore a dark suit with a blue stock, and these seemed at once to accentuate his pallor and his peculiar fairness, and to stress, also, the ascetic beauty of his features.
One might have noted that the mummy in its gaily painted sarcophagus (which stood in a recess beside the hearth, and on the right of Lord Marcus) was that of a man at least equally tall. Refreshments of all kinds were set out on a mobile buffet; and except for the singular appointments of the house, and more particularly those of the lobby, nothing overtly mysterious had so far intruded upon the gathering. Nor had anything been said by their host to account for his assembling these persons together.
